Sweet Dreams
by capitolrebel
Summary: Good spies can never really rest. But sometimes, you have to try. At the end of a long day, assorted spooks and hangers on attempt to find their way into that good night.
1. Adam, Jenny and Wes

When he's here, he really is a great dad.

They're curled up on the sofa together, the resemblance obvious. She envies them that, sometimes, they look so much like a family. Her cocoa skin always drew compliments from schoolfriends. Even Adam's blonde girl – Kate? – had admired it, flawless, but it distances her from them, because walking down the street, it's clear there's something she's not a part of.

The same messy golden hair, jawlines and strong chins. Identical toothpaste-striped little boy pajamas. Wes is leaning against Adam, who is snoring gently, broad chest rising and falling and rising again. A perfect picture. She tries not to think about how much of a relief it is just to see him breathing.

She'd wanted to talk about it, of course. But Wes had come darting out of the bedroom and there had been dinner and Playstation and the latest crisis debrief would have to wait. It was always the same thing, anyway. Yes, I'm fine. No, it's just a _minor_ bullet wound. Don't tell Wes. Don't believe what you see on the news. No, I can't talk about it, but I need to ring Kate and talk about it. Night, then.

She looked at his mobile, once, while he was asleep and there's no number for a Kate. There's a Ros and a Ruth and a Jo, who she's never heard him talk about, and so she knows that he's lying to her. Every minute of every day, he lies to his family, her and his son. Jenny picks up the blanket and drapes it over them both, and then kisses them, Adam on the lips, Wes on the forehead.

She can't summon the energy to care. Whatever Adam does, it's important, and she could watch him breathe forever. But, no. She needs to rest, Wes needs to be at school for 7.30 and she's never been a morning person. Not like Adam, alive and alert at almost all hours, raring to go. Reluctantly, she drags herself away, down the hall, pausing for a second at the front door.

Adam doesn't open his eyes until he hears it click behind her. She is beautiful and kind and he's aware that she's falling in love with him. He gropes in the cabinet next to the sofa until he pulls out an old photo, faded and stained and folded at two corners.

He's aware that she's falling in love with him. He thinks he wouldn't mind.

His fingers stroke the photo, smoothing the corners. A dubious red mark, presumably wine, lingers persistently across her stomach; no amount of scratching will shift it, but her face is the same as ever, devious and beautiful.

"Goodnight, Fi."


	2. Ros and Malcolm

"Malcolm" she snaps "I don't care how you made it; I just want to know if it works."

Ros has never been a patient person. She does try, when she's around him, but it's just not in her nature. It's a rock and a hard place; listening to his diatribe on the merits of some gadget over some other gizmo had nearly sent her to sleep, but the look on his face now is physically painful.

"Yes, Ros."

That's all. Just yes, Ros, of course, because he thinks she doesn't want to listen to him. He doesn't understand that she just wants to listen to him talk about anything else. Ros excels at casual sex, the casual brush-off, even the casual wardrobe, but she's no good at this murky grey quagmire of conversation and feelings. It's just not her style.

She leans forward and mutters "thankyou", quick and garbled, because she's not used to saying it, and tugs her hair free of the smart black clip that's digging into her scalp.

"Why, Miss Myers" Malcolm, typical Malcolm, as her hair falls around her face "you're beautiful."

She wants him to understand that it wasn't the technology that let her down today, and she doesn't need to be in his office at five past midnight discussing possible improvements. She wants to admit that she's scared (of today, of herself, perhaps of him) but she can't do it.

So she does something else instead. Something more familiar.

He expected her to taste bitter and chalky, but her lips are rich and acidic, like white wine vinegar. She crushes her mouth against him with fury, but the rest of her body remains taut and tense, arms held by her sides. He places hands on narrow hips and drags her forward, and suddenly she lets out a tiny gasp and it's a real kiss with a pretty blonde girl and he realises how long he's been waiting.

"I had him tortured" she murmurs when they pull apart, hands still curled around his shoulders.

He kisses her once more on the mouth, infinitely gentle.

"Nobody should have to make the choice you did. For what it's worth, I think you made the right one."

She nods. She wonders if he realises that now that he's seen a piece of her, there's no going back.

"Come home with me, Malcolm."

He nods and she nods, like they're in some kind of insane puppet theatre. They don't hold hands on the way to the pods (still not her style) but outside in the freezing cold he slips his coat around her trembling shoulders and for once, she doesn't object.

One day, she will try and explain her strange and irrational collection of fears, but not tonight. Tonight is for wine and music and making not-love, and some brief respite after her long day.


	3. Zaf and Jo

"I should have done more. I could have helped…"

Zaf is patient; she is half-drowsy and still new at this game.

"Nobody could have done more than you did, Jo. We tried everything we could. Sometimes, it just has to be the hard way."

She leans back and stretches against the sofa, and Zaf stares at her exposed stomach for about six seconds longer than he probably should. Somehow, they've got through a whole bottle of wine, but there is still a clear line in his head. There are Girls (pretty, vacant, good for sex) and there are Friends (Jo and Adam and Ruth, people who understand him, people who have his back). The idea of a Girl-Friend is alien, understood only as syllogism: Girls are great and Friends are amazing – would a girlfriend then be amazingly great, or just an illogical amalgamation, two of his favourite things lost in poor compromise, like putting chocolate on chips?

"When I was in the warehouse with Adam, I thought I was going to die. I mean, I've been shot at before, and tied to that bomb, but it was never so personal, you know? I could feel it, cold against my temple…"

She's just rambling; he doesn't think she needs an answer. She does that sometimes, trying to sort out the chaos in her head, making a running commentary of the day's events, late at night when they're both alone. Journalistic instinct, he supposes. He doesn't know; he only ever wanted to be a spy.

"You lose everything in this job, don't you?" Her voice is slowing, her breathing even. Her head rests against his shoulder, heavy and warm. "Friends, family, all the people that look after you just – go, and you have to take care of yourself."

Speech now is hazy and indistinct. He catches something about Adam and the words "self-sacrifice" mumbled over and over again. Her hair tickles his neck and her elbow digs uncomfortably into his chest, but he doesn't move away.

"I'll take care of you" he whispers into her Cinderella hair. "Jo? I'll look after you, I promise. And I won't go away."

He waits but she doesn't reply, doesn't even open her eyes. He thinks maybe she's already dreaming.


	4. Juliet

Even getting into bed is a challenge; she has to lever herself out of the chair, balancing on her arms (her arms muscles have improved, tenfold) before she can collapse onto her pillow and drag herself into position.

She can put up with the awkwardness. She hates the static. It takes so very long to get anywhere, and she's used to being a woman of action. Harry had come to her without so much as a passing remark on the subject; others had not been so kind. Already, though, she's discovered the power of being disabled, learned how to use it to her advantage. Nobody wants to pick on the woman in the wheelchair.

Juliet looks out of the window at the sky and wills her mind to come up with a more descriptive adjective than 'dark'. Politics has ruined her imagination. Also her sense of humour, capacity to love, or even like, and most recently, her legs.

It's no use, all her words mean the same thing; black, inky, void, destructive. No stars tonight, to guide ships safely home.

She's aware of it, sitting in the bottom drawer of her bedside table, being so very contrary to the woman she's worked so hard to be. Its very presence should be a cause of distress, but instead she finds herself with the opposite concerns. She's lost her ability to walk, and found no redeeming features to replace it.

Her hand opens the drawer of her own volition. Everyone has guilty pleasures, she rationalises. Maybe she's no different from everybody else.

She opens the book at a random page – she's certainly not reading it all the way through, like it's anything that matters – and checks to see that she hasn't stumbled upon anything too flowery. Lush prose is a comfort, like a warm blanket, soothing her frazzled nervers and shaking hands. Fanciful, she convinces herself she can wiggle her toes.

It's amazing that a trashy romantic novel can have so much power over her. Being the big bad has left her tired and drained; when she comes home at night, she needs something else. Juliet needs her life back, her spark, her imagination. And failing that, someone else's will do.

She glances round (like there's anyone there, like there's ever anyone there) and begins to read.

A flash of brilliant white lightning illuminates the sky. Electric, she thinks. Mesmerising, hypnotic, beautiful, spellbinding.

Juliet is asleep before she reaches the bottom of the page.


	5. Harry and Ruth

They don't go home; Ruth admitted halfway there that she couldn't face it and watched his shoulders sag with relief. They sit in the car for awhile, not speaking, until muscle cramps and an absence of places to go that don't bring up bad memories lead them to a tiny café, blue shutters and red umbrellas and smart waiters in snappy tailored suits.

"Not Paris, perhaps" Harry murmurs in her ear, guiding her to a table with a hand on her back.

"Close enough" she murmurs back, and they both smile. The waiter shows them to a corner table and this being London, not Paris, they get a view of a skip and two cars, one with a smashed window.

She knows she looked better the first time they went out; in fact, she's fairly sure she looked better than this every single day of her life. On Harry, the torn shirt and ruffled hair have a sort of macho charm. On her, not so much.

She begins with a detailed analysis of the team, today and in general. Adam, falling apart. Ros, tough, but then we knew that. She's busily debating whether Zaf was serious about trying to exchange himself for Jo, and what it means either way, when the waiter returns.

"Steak, please. Rare. And some house red?"

He hands his menu back. The waiter looks at her, and she looks at Harry.

"You're eating? Harry, it's past midnight!"

He looks at her levelly, the hint of a smile playing around his lips.

"I'm having dinner."

He knows she won't leave. For one, he's got the car keys. For another, she has nowhere else to go.

"Milanese Chicken, please" and then, when the waiter's gone, "you don't give up, do you?"

Harry leans forward and quotes, verbatim "I hold onto certain things, that I feel are important and good." And as he'd known they would, her cheeks flush at the memory, the first in a long series of moments leading to this. He's got his second date. He'll get her in the end.

"No, Ruth. I don't give up. Not on you. Not ever."

"Relentless, then." Her fingers brush against his and she takes his hand, twining her fingers with his. "But only in a…good way."

It's the end of a terrible day. But she smiles, eyes bright, and he thinks it's also the beginning of something wonderful.


End file.
